Angel
by RosylaGypsy
Summary: Sometimes, Mohinder forgets why he persists with a life that asks a lot, but offers little in return. All it takes is one look and he remembers.


**AN: I've watched Heroes religiously since ****it first graced our TV screens, but it wasn't until after the last episode last week that this plot bunny attacked. Not particularly original, more a character study than anything, but I really like it. Most likely a one-shot, post S1.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own it.**

**Angel**

Mohinder drummed his fingers agitatedly on the steering wheel, silently willing the traffic line to move forward. His dark eyes cast an occasional restless glance at the digital clock, anxiety increasing every time the second digit changed. Maybe it was the result of a long day of driving around New York in a freezing cab for non-appreciative customers all day, but the city seemed to be against him more than usual right now.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the car in front of him started to inch forward. It was days like these that the Indian man wondered exactly what he was doing here. It was days like these that he found particularly loathsome, as it forced him to remember all the events that had led to his existence in this grimy, crowded, polluted place.

His mind did so now without invitation, playing out the recent past events in chronological order like a film. It started, as usual, with his father's death, a little over four months ago. The following events clicked into place in rapid succession; Eden, his father's research, Peter Petrelli, prophetic paintings, 'Saving the Cheerleader', returning to India, Shanti, Zane Taylor (he tended to feel a pang of self-admonishment and pain here), Sylar, the explosion, Molly Walker . . .

It was at this point that his mind usually stopped to give him a break. At first, it puzzled him why the memory film ended here, on such a final, decisive note. It wasn't until after two months of living with his new charge had passed, two long months of watching Disney cartoons and making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (crusts cut off), of long evenings on the sofa with a tiny, fragile form nestled on his lap, that Mohinder figured it out. Molly was what it all boiled down to. Everything he had done and continued to do, though he didn't know it at first, he did for her. She was the reason he stayed here, in New York, so far away from his birth home.

He now finally understood why his father had risked everything – his work, his family, his life – for the mere memory of a much-loved daughter who died years ago.

The thought of that familiar angelic face with big eyes awaiting him just three blocks away made him smile slightly. It often amazed him that those eyes, which had seen so many awful things n their short life, could still hold so much hope in their blue depths. Hope that was strong enough to last when it could be found nowhere else. However, the smile evaporated when he caught sight of the time and was reminded of the reason for his original agitation.

3:17 pm. Her end-of-day school bell would have rung almost twenty minutes ago, and she would now be standing diligently by the large building, waiting for him to show up. To anyone else, seventeen minutes late for picking one's daughter up from school was not a big deal, but Molly was not just anyone else.

Plenty of bad things could happen to her in that amount of time, when there were no caring teachers keeping a close eye on her, but plenty of opportunities for less caring people to strike. Mohinder knew he was being paranoid, but he had learnt that paranoia was often a useful tool in staying alive. And no tool was too expensive when it came to keeping Molly safe.

It was with a worried gaze that Mohinder surveyed the school entrance as he pulled up in front of it, peering through the sea of students. He needn't have panicked however, as the little girl was easy to spot, garbed in a thick blue coat that Matt Parkman had given her for Christmas. Her eyes brightened upon spotting his somewhat conspicuous vehicle, and she gave an excited smile and wave that never ceased to make him melt.

As she hurried over, book bag slung over her shoulder, he couldn't help but notice the looks that were being projected his way. They varied from curious to downright dubious depending on the sender's age, and he was wondering if it was because the sight of an Indian man picking up a white-skinned child was strange, or because his battered cab looked so starkly contrasting next to the shiny white Mercedes directly in front.

Molly, for her part, looked supremely unconcerned as she opened the passenger door and slid inside, despite the fact that some of the stares were from her classmates. Mohinder couldn't help but wonder if they made any comments about her unorthodox guardian during the school hours.

"Did you have a good day?" he asked, returning the tight hug she gave him across the seat.

"Uh-huh," she replied, settling back down.

"Sorry I was so late," he apologised, trying to avoid a direct glare from a disapproving mother nearby. Americans, he had found, were not known for their subtlety or manners.

She gave him an amused smile. "It was only a few minutes. Nothing bad happened."

Since the lecture on constant vigilance had already been covered at least three times, he simply smiled and said, "Good."

He then pulled the cab out onto the road once more, mentally preparing himself for the enthusiastic barrage of information and anecdotes that she routinely offered after a day at school. They never came, which disarmed him briefly, but his mind was currently occupied with navigating the car into the next lane.

The next few blocks went by in silence. He cast a sideways glance at the girl, disliking the uncharacteristically preoccupied from on her young features.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked lightly.

"No," she said, not taking her eyes off the snail-like car outside. He decided to let it drop for the moment, not wanting to make her feel pressured. A few more minutes passed in which nothing was said, then . . .

"Were you ever poor?" she asked abruptly.

To say he was taken aback was an understatement. Giving a slightly bemused smile, he replied, "Why do you ask that, Molly?"

She gave him a shifty glance, and he was strongly reminded of himself about to ask a sensitive question. It was strange but touching to think that she would take his personal feelings into consideration when most children her age would just jump in without thinking. She seemed to conclude that he could take it, however, and said, "Oh, it's just that . . . our teacher was telling us about India today and, well, you're from India right?"

Curious at where this was going, he nodded. She looked down at her hands and continued with, "Well, Mrs Hays said that lots of people in India are really poor and have to live on streets, and when rich people go to visit them they just walk right on by without doing anything. She said that a friend of hers went there once and took pictures of some beggars in the street but didn't try to help them at all."

Molly seemed very distressed. He looked at her, trying to think of the best way to phrase his words so that a nine-year-old would understand. "That's true, there are a lot of poor people in India," he began gently. "Tourists – rich people who go to visit – don't always understand how hard it is and don't want to spend their holiday feeling sorry for strangers."

She frowned. "That's not very fair."

He smiled sadly. "I know, it's not. There are a lot of unfair things in the world, just like there are a lot of people who don't care. But there are also people who do care, like you and me, and we must do what we can to try and balance out the bad things."

"Like Peter and Nathan Petrelli saving the world?"

An image of two men soaring into the sky before it exploded flashed vividly before his eyes. He winced. "Not exactly. You don't always have to do big things to save the world; small kindnesses like playing with a lonely person at school, or comforting a friend when they're sad can do a lot in the long run. Do you understand?"

She frowned thoughtfully "I think so." The girl was silent for a moment, then looked at him. "So, _were_ you ever poor?"

Mohinder smiled at her reassuringly. "No my family was very well off. We were lucky." Much better off than here, he thought sardonically, but kept that to himself.

A smile broke out on her face then. "That's good," she said. "One of the beggar people in the photos she showed us looked a bit like you and I couldn't stop thinking about it."

Once again, Mohinder was struck by how innocent yet insightful Molly's comments were. She was genuinely concerned about what happened to other people, and that was a trait that she could do a lot of good with in the future. He was thankful she wouldn't have to live the rest of her life in a lab, used as a tool by uncaring people like Thompson and the Company. He sometimes worried that the tiny apartment he could barely pay the rent for wasn't good enough for someone as special as Molly, but at least she was free to make her own choices in it.

They finally arrived at said apartment and she leaned over in the seat to give him another hug, longer than the first. "I'm glad you never had to live on the streets," she said into his shoulder, then got out of the car. He followed her example and felt her small hand slip into his as they walked up to the door.

Mohinder decided that he didn't really mind living in New York, for all that it was polluted and crowded and dangerous; anywhere was fine so long as he had Molly Walker by his side.


End file.
